


Dead Guy at the Rosebud Motel

by upbeat



Category: Schitt's Creek, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Episode: s04e01 Dead Guy in Room 4, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upbeat/pseuds/upbeat
Summary: It's been four days since David kissed Patrick for the first time, three days since Patrick kissed him a second time and a dead body was found at the motel (unrelated), and now just a little over an hour since two federal agents showed up in their town because a killer might be on the loose....When Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully arrive in Schitt’s Creek to investigate how a man in room 4 expired, the Roses must recount the events of that fateful graduation night.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 33
Kudos: 69





	Dead Guy at the Rosebud Motel

**Author's Note:**

> Some liberties have been taken. This takes place, obviously, around Dead Guy in Room 4 in the Schitt's Creek universe and, let's just say, in or around season 5 of the X-Files. 
> 
> Also very slight Schitt's Creek season 6 spoilers.

The basement lights flicker almost methodically above them. It’s nearing lunchtime, but from their windowless office at the bottom of the Hoover Building, it might as well be half past midnight. 

"The old man in room four died alone in his sleep."

"Or did he, Scully?" Mulder throws down three more case files in front of her like he’d just revealed a winning hand in poker. It's comforting, somehow, the familiar sound of those folders hitting the desk, and she lets out a small, satisfied yawn. Scully could measure the past five years of her life in Manila folders.

 _Yes,_ she thinks. Old man in his 70s, pre-existing heart condition, cardiac arrest. Seemed simple enough. No reason to suspect foul play. But, of course, her partner would find one. He always does. 

“So what is it this time, Mulder?” she sighs more than speaks it. 

When he doesn't respond right away, she leans back in her chair and rattles off a series of characters from Mulder’s Mythical Humanoids Vol. II. "Vampires? Mothmen?” She pauses, remembering how the old man died. “ _Sandman_ ,” she says pointedly. 

Mulder looks briefly intrigued by the idea. “... Sandman? Actually, not entirely out of the realm of possibility, Scully,” he says. “You know, in 19th century Germany there was a lesser-known version of the Sandman who’d dress in tattered garbs and sprinkle sand in people’s eyes causing them to fall out of their skull in the middle of the night.”

She just blinks at him like, _Mulder, this man clearly had both of his eyeballs intact._

“Anyway, Scully,” he pops a sunflower seed into his mouth. “I’m not sure just yet what might have killed this man. But those files there? _Three_ more identical deaths in nearby motels." He raps his knuckle on the desk. "Which is why we have to head out to that town ASAP.”

"And what town is that exactly?"

Mulder bites down anxiously on another seed and turns to leave.

"Mulder," Scully warns. "Mulder, where are we going?"

...

It's a quiet afternoon at the Rosebud Motel except for Moira's screaming. 

She's been at it for almost an hour, or maybe it was only 10 minutes. The curtains of the motel room are drawn tight, blanketing everything in a heavy, eerie darkness. Her babies, Maureen and Cindy, on the floor by the vanity in uncharacteristic disarray. She nearly steps on them twice as she marches back and forth in true Moira Rose fashion, each shriek followed by a performative pace around the room.

“You said this wasn’t a _murder_ , John!” she sobs and points a finger at her husband, rounding the corner of their bed for the fifth time. 

“Moira, we don’t know yet that it _is_ a murder -- “

Another shout. 

“Then _what_ are those federal agents doing coming _here_ if not to implicate us all in a heinous crime?!” 

Johnny barely has time to furrow his brows before he hears his son's voice pierce through the tailend of Moira's sing-song syllables. 

"I'm sorry, who's coming where to what now?!" David is standing in their doorway, the light from the early afternoon sun pouring in like a beacon.

“David!” Moira shrieks. “Shut the door, _please!_ We don’t want them to know where we are!”

“Moira!” Johnny shouts back. “They’re not even here yet!” 

David notices the closed curtains and shuts the door behind him quickly. The rest of the motel isn’t yet ready for his mother’s theatrics (she will need another 30 minutes of warm up despite all the hard work she’s already put in on vocal prep). He turns toward his father and gesticulates wildy with his hands not unlike his own mother.

“I’m sorry, will someone _please_ tell me what’s going on here?” 

"Oh I always _knew_ our sojourn in this town would lead to someone’s gruesome death!" Moira storms off to the bathroom leaving David staring anxiously at his father.

“Well, David,” he starts. “It looks like the FBI wants to further investigate the dead body from this weekend.” He pauses and scrubs his hand over his face to give the news a few seconds to sink in. “They’re sending over two agents from DC tomorrow morning. They suspect foul play as there’s been a string of similar deaths in nearby motels.”

David’s hands have stopped moving and are now frozen mid-air in complete shock, his face drained of all color. _Marcel Marceau wearing Neil Barrett,_ someone might have guessed from his flawless impression. 

“There’s… there’s a killer… _here_?” he manages after God knows how long. He glances nervously around the darkened room. “In Schitt’s Creek?”

…

"Oh, you've got to be shi--"

Scully's face is a picture-perfect blend of exasperation, confusion, and mild amusement as she looks up at the town’s billboard. It must be a stunt, or at least some ill-advised gimmick to attract visitors. "Don't Worry, It's His Sister!" is not any consolation. She hears Mulder start to snicker from the driver’s seat as he slows to a halt to get a better look. He’s laughing earnestly now, at the sign, at Scully, and he takes out his phone to snap a picture of the sign, making sure to get her in the shot.

“Smile!” he teases and she throws him a hard sideways glance.

“Mulder, where are we? This can’t be real.”

…

“Agents!” Roland claps his hands together in excitement. “Welcome!”

They’ve formed what looks like a miniature assembly line outside of the motel. Roland, Johnny, and Stevie, in order of who’s most excited to be there. (“And importance to the town and its people,” claims Roland.)

Scully, almost a full foot shorter than her partner, her sensible heels clacking softly against the sidewalk, reaches the motel office first. Roland’s hand is already reaching out to greet her. His hand is somehow both clammy and dry and their handshake lasts just a little too long. 

“Roland Schitt, mayor of this lovely town,” he says just as Mulder steps up behind her. 

“Agent Scully,” she says when Roland finally lets go of her hand. She turns to motion behind her. “This is my partner, Agent Mulder.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sch -- Mr. Mayor,” Mulder says, opting for a friendly nod instead of a handshake. 

“And I’m --” Johnny begins.

“Johnny Rose,” Mulder finishes. “Rose Video. I was a loyal customer myself.” 

“Oh, well, that’s always nice to hear,” Johnny seems embarrassed. He puts his hand on Stevie’s back. “This is Stevie.” She offers a shy smile. “We own the motel,” he says, no longer that embarrassed. 

“Well it’s very nice to meet you all. And thank you for letting us stay here for a couple nights,” Scully says politely, squinting into the mid-morning sun.

“Right, about that. Uh, small problem,” Roland crowds in a little too closely to them. “We’re still pretty booked up from this weekend, so we only have one room available. You two okay with sharing one room?”

...

There is a faint odor in room 3, the misty scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne, and the carpet is a little dreary, but compared to the other motels Mulder and Scully have stayed in over the past several years, this was like a Four Seasons. 

A knock sounds at the door just as they’ve finished getting settled. It’s Johnny with some towels.

“Thank you,” Mulder takes them. “And this is perfect, we were actually just coming to talk to you. We’d like to get a look at your books the days before and after the body was found.”

Johnny ushers them out the door. “We’ve actually just compiled that for you.”

Back at the motel office, Mulder and Scully look through the print out of reservations from the past five days. 

“I suppose you’ll be heading over to Elm Glen and Elm Valley soon to get a copy of their reservations as well. You know, to compare guests,” Johnny can’t help but be a little intrigued by the investigation unfolding at their motel. 

“Actually, I was able to get a list from those other motels on our way here,” Mulder says. He holds up his phone. “They e-mailed it to me.” 

Johnny looks at Stevie. “Do we have e-mail?” he whispers to her. 

“How many of these guests are still here? We’d like to interview whoever we can,” Scully says. 

…

It's been four days since David kissed Patrick for the first time, three days since Patrick kissed him a second time and a dead body was found at the motel (unrelated), and now just a little over an hour since two federal agents showed up in their town because a killer might be on the loose. 

“This is all just really stressing me out right now,” David says as he squints at his reflection in the shop mirror on the counter. Patrick is next to him, leaning backwards, elbows propped against the counter. He’s facing David, his fingers playing absently with the extra fabric on his pants. 

“Like I said, David, everything is going to be fine. We don’t know for certain that that old man was murdered. There might not even _be_ a killer to speak of,” Patrick reasons. 

“I mean, look -- look at these bags,” David ignores him and presses his fingers into the spot under his eyes. His voice begins to creep into a higher register. “No amount of eucalyptus eye serum could fix this!” He sighs. “And my _hands,_ ” he holds them out in front of him. “I haven’t been this shaky since the night before my fourth grade talent show when my mom accidentally gave me Adderall instead of Xanax.”

His hands are now in the air dramatically, and then, just as suddenly, they’re in Patrick’s. He folds their fingers together and gently rubs circles over David’s hands, steadying them almost instantly.

“David, you look fine,“ he says slowly.

“But I -- “

Patrick loosens his grip and swipes his right thumb across David’s cheek. He shifts over slightly, aligning their bodies together. Patrick is sturdy and warm and something in the weight of his hips against David’s tempers the anxiety in David’s chest as they lean in for their 14th kiss (who’s counting?). 

“I promise I usually look much better than this,” he says against Patrick’s lips, grinning as he moves in for another kiss (15). 

“Oh, I hope so,” Patrick quips when they break apart. “Now I think I should run to the cafe and grab some lunch. Maybe some food will help calm you down. Want your usual?” 

“Rude,” David says, already missing Patrick’s lips. “And yes.”

… 

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Manning,” Mulder says to the dark-haired woman retreating back into her room. He hears the click-clack of heels to his right. Alexis has just returned home and is fumbling with her keys in her purse.

“Excuse me,” Mulder calls out. “Are you Alexis Rose?”

“Yes I am,” she flashes a toothy grin. “And who are you?” 

Mulder reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his badge. “Agent Mulder. I’m with the F-- “.

“Oh!” Alexis squeaks. “Oh my gosh, yes, the FBI people!”

He chuckles. “Yes, the FBI people. Anyway, if you have some time now, I’d love to ask you some questions about what happened at the motel this weekend.” 

“Of course, of course,” Alexis manages to get her key in and open the door. “Come on in.”

“So, did anything out of the ordinary happen Friday night?” They’re both seated at the table in Alexis and David’s room. David’s yellow flowers are dying slowly between them.

"Um, actually, yes," Alexis taps the top of Mulder's notepad as if motioning for him to start writing. "Ted showed up to my high school graduation that night." 

Mulder simply looks at her, waiting.

Her eyes widen. “I know, right? Like, I had _just_ quit the clinic earlier that day. And, you know, we have our whole history, and he’s with Heather now, so like, _why_ would he have come? Like, what does that even mean?” 

Mulder blinks. “I’m sorry, who is Ted?” 

“Oh, he’s my ex. And my ex-boss.”

"Ok. Thank you, Alexis," Mulder looks down at his notepad and does a once-over of the notes he just took ( _Alexis - in high school???_ ). "But I was wondering more along the lines of if anything weird happened _here_ that night. At the motel."

Alexis gasps. "Oh! Yes," she reaches out and places her hand on Mulder's arm. She lowers her voice, her eyes dancing. "My brother Frenched his business partner in the car outside." 

…

_Patrick. Where the FUCK are you?_

David types deftly into his phone, eyes looking down at the screen for just a fleeting second and then they’re back on the redheaded woman in front of him. 

Of course it was David’s luck that as soon as Patrick left for the cafe one of the FBI agents would show up at the store.

“So you left the motel a little before 8:00 to meet Patrick at Cafe Tropical?” Scully repeats. David glances anxiously at his phone and nods. 

“And you didn’t notice anything strange when you left the motel? No one entering or leaving room 4?”

David glances down at his phone again and shakes his head. 

"Ok,” she writes something down. “And what is your relation to Patrick?"

David freezes. _What was their relation? Business partners. Who went on one date. Which translates to…_

"We're, uh… we're… part-partners… we're partners? ... In business," he adds. "And, um... and... da-dates..." he drags out the "s" wishing that squirmy voiceless consonant could somehow magically string all the words he just said together into a complete, cohesive sentence. Or maybe just lasso it all up and make them disappear altogether. 

"You're partners in business and dates," Scully repeats slowly over what sounds like David deflating.

"Yes..." Again with the "s."

"Dates like the fruit? Do you two sell fruits here?" she looks around. 

"Oh god, no,” David waves a hand in front of his face. “I'm allergic." 

Scully’s eyes narrow and she brushes a strand of hair away from her face. "Right, ok. Now did anything out of the ordinary happen once you arrived back at the motel?"

David thinks, _that kiss,_ but that's not what the woman in the jumpsuit is asking so he says, "No, nothing out of the ordinary."

...

“Can you tell me who..." Mulder looks down at his notepad. "... Damien Steele is?"

Johnny and Stevie’s eyes dart over to Roland instantly. The three of them are sitting on the couch in the motel office, Mulder on the chair next to them. 

“We noticed he checked into room 10 here that night,” Mulder explains. “And then he also apparently stayed at one of the other motels in Elm Glen the night before that, which was the same night another victim passed.”

Johnny and Stevie’s eyes are like daggers and Roland dodges them all. 

“Uh, yeah,” Roland says with a sly smile. “That would be me.” He stands and sticks out his hand to greet Mulder as if they hadn’t just met a couple hours earlier.

“I thought your name was Roland,” he says.

“It is during the day,” Roland laughs to himself. “See, Mulder, it’s kind of a tradition, you might say. The missus and I always book a room here the night of graduation to… reflect back on our own grad night,” he sits back down and casually drapes his arm behind Johnny. "We usually just book one night here at this motel, but this year Joce and I have been feeling a little... _extra_ nostalgic, if you know what I mean."

Mulder laughs. "Oh, ok, I see,” he strikes off something on his notepad then points at the three of them. “Better watch out. Nine months from now you guys might have a little Roland, Jr. around here, huh?"

When no one laughs at his joke, Mulder clears his throat and continues. “Ok, uh, so aside from Mr. Steele here,” he looks at Roland, “nothing else unusual or out of the ordinary that night?”

“Well, the motel sold out,” Stevie says. 

…

Patrick has _finally_ arrived back at the store with lunch, but David couldn’t be bothered with food right now. His attention is on the two people in front of him. 

“Yeah, no, we um, we got back to the motel around 10:30,” Patrick is retelling their date night to Scully near the back of the store and David is trying his very hardest to eavesdrop, which, of course, means literally dropping a tube of lip balm off the counter. Patrick turns at the noise and flashes him a quick, knowing smile, and David could have dropped another ten lip balms right there.

“I pulled up in the stalls right outside and we stayed in the car for a little bit.”

David hears that and smiles secretly to himself. He wonders if Patrick is, too. He thinks he saw his ears move.

“And nothing happened while you were in the car?”

Patrick pauses, then very quickly, almost imperceptibly, glances at David. _I had my last first kiss in that car,_ he thinks. 

“No, no, not that I could see,” he says instead. “Most of the lights in the rooms were out at that point, I think.” 

…

Scully pokes gingerly at her salad. Across from her, Mulder takes a hearty bite into his sandwich. It's 12:15 p.m. the next day and the two had just returned from a morning visit to Elm Glen and Elm Valley where they had made some headway, according to Mulder. 

“The ‘Full Combo,’ Scully” he says, mouth full, holding up his sandwich like a peace offering. He knows she’s tired. She's ready to close their file on this one, chalking it up to natural causes again. Scully shakes her head. 

“So, this song thing,” Mulder prompts. 

She reads through her notes, bored, almost. “Several guests here have reported hearing ‘Don’t Cry out Loud’ playing from one of the rooms that night,” she recaps, unsure of what that means.

Mulder nods eagerly.

“And we heard similar reports from that motel in Elm Glen..." she continues, almost to herself, willing it to all make sense.

"Right, exactly," Mulder places his sandwich down and dusts off his hands. "And what does that tell you, Scully?”

She looks up at him like she wants to wave a white flag and sighs. "I don't know, Mulder. ... That the killer has horrible taste in music?”

“Wrong, Scully,” Mulder takes a beat. “Well, you’re not wrong about _that_. But no, it tells us that this is a ritualized killing of some sort,” he leans back in the booth.

“Ok,” she says skeptically. “And what kind of ritualized killing exactly, Mulder?”

He simply smiles, picks up the wedge of lime off her salad, and holds it between his fingers. 

“You think the killer is a lime,” it’s a statement more than a question and unfortunately not the weirdest one she’s ever uttered. 

…

"Mr. Rose, have you ever heard of a man named Citrus?" Scully asks. 

They're back in the motel office. Johnny is behind the desk trying to get the computer to stop typing only in capital letters. _(hOW DID sTEVIE DO THIS AGAIN?)_

 _"Citrus?"_ Johnny nearly scoffs. "That’s a… person?”

“Apparently so,” Mulder says. “He and a group of people had been staying in an airstream about 20 minutes away.”

“Oh, but you’ve seen him _here?_ At our motel?” Johnny asks.

“Well no,” Mulder says. “He didn’t check into any of the motels, but some guests in both Elm Glen and Elm Valley reported seeing him in nearby cafes. He was talking to one of the victims the night before she died, in fact. Something about bicycles and attending a class… ” Mulder trails off, looking through his notes.

Johnny’s interest wanes slightly. “Well, no, we've definitely never heard of anyone by that name. I can check with Stevie but -- " 

“... and demons…”

“ _Demons?_ ” Johnny’s brows shoot upward. 

“He’s… speaking metaphorically,” Scully shuts Mulder’s notepad and, with it, the rest of the conversation. She places her hand on Mulder’s arm, signaling to leave. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rose. We’ll be wrapping up our stay here later today.”

“So you’ve - you’ve been to the other motels, then?” Johnny says to them before they turn to leave. “The Sherwood?” He looks back and forth between the two agents with a smile. “And uh, what did you think? Their coffee any good? Did they have any… pastries?” He glances behind them and his smile falters when he sees the several-days-old cinnamon buns that have dried out on the table. 

“Thank you again for your time,” Mulder says. He opens the door to leave and finds Stevie on the other side. She brushes past them with a small smile. 

“What else did they want? I thought they were finished here,” she asks Johnny once the door shuts. 

“They wanted to know if we knew someone named… Lemon, I think it was?”  
  
...

"Oh I think it's more than just a 'cult,' Scully," Mulder says back in room 3. 

“No, Mulder. Don't. This is all inconclusive at best,” Scully tells him. “There’s _no_ physical evidence connecting Citrus or any members of Evolution to these deaths. These victims were all in their 70s and 80s. They all had pre-existing conditions. They all died of natural causes.”

Mulder is hunched over his laptop while Scully packs her bag. He has multiple tabs open on the Evolution website, articles about Evolution’s West Coast Wing, the newly formed East Coast Wing which is presumably what Citrus was heading. And then more tabs open on spiritual possession, human sacrifices, demonology. The usual. He’s deep in it now, as he always is at this point in their investigation. 

_This point being the end,_ Scully would remind him. 

“Yes, ‘natural causes.’ … Scully, the treatise,” Mulder points to the screen and reads: “Those who are elderly or in poor health should not attempt to reach the Gateway via SoulCycle, but should instead be _assisted_ to the Gateway by other _natural_ _means._ ” He emphasizes. He clicks on another tab and reads: “Entering the Gateway, The Final Chapter: He is Eternal,” and another: “A Natural Reprieve for When the Demons Won’t Leave.“

Scully stares at him. “You’re reaching, Mulder.” She pulls the zipper on her bag. 

His eyes are still glued to his laptop, his index finger tracing a route across the screen. "If they follow the same pattern here as their West Coast Wing… it looks like they revisit towns every few years.” He pauses and looks up at her. “He might be back here in Schitt’s Creek in another two or three years, Scully.”

Scully sighs, unconcerned and utterly unimpressed. “Mulder, I’ve finished my report to AD Skinner, my bags are all packed. Can we _please_ just go back home so I can have a proper smoothie?”

…

Scully literally runs into Moira as she opens the door to leave.

"Oh, agents!” Moira is wearing a two-toned, black and white Givenchy dress and a matching two-toned wig. “Here I am!" She parades in front of them. "No need for superfluous introduction.” She presses her wrists together and holds them out in front of her, but not too far, almost like she’s accepting an award. 

“I say let’s do this now with great speed. But, please, do it _gently_ ,” she practically sings. “My nails have only just now finished drying and perhaps the only thing more pedestrian than a little roadside motel arrest are chipped nails in last season’s Givenchy,” she sobs out the last half of her sentence.

Moira's inimitable voice carries through the motel window and suddenly Johnny is opening the office door and stepping outside.

“Moira, Moira,” he calls exasperatedly to her. “Moira, what are you doing?”

“Oh, John,” she turns to him and collects herself. “Right on cue, dear. I’m giving the agents what they came here for. If Vivien --”

“Please, sweetheart,” Johnny approaches her. “Go back to your room. Agent Mulder and Agent Scully are actually on their way out. Their investigation is over, Moira.” He places a hand on her back and guides her back down the sidewalk.

“Over?” she looks at him. “So soon? Why wasn’t I made aware of this revision? Usually any abridgements are discussed beforehand...”

Johnny walks Moira back to her room, away from Mulder and Scully, who, until now, thought they had seen everything.

… 

Just as quickly as they had arrived, Mulder and Scully (just Scully) leave Schitt's Creek with the conclusion and promise that there was, in fact, no killer after all and the victims all died naturally, alone in their sleep. A fate Mulder finds far worse than cult-based, demonic sacrifice. And a _less than thrilling_ denouement according to Television's Moira Rose. 

Tom Petty is on the radio as they drive away from the motel. The jangling guitars fill the space between them. _She couldn't help thinking that there was a little more to life somewhere else,_ Tom croons. Scully smiles.

“Do you like this song?” Mulder asks.

“Huh? Oh, no. I was just thinking,” she pauses. “Do you think you could do it? Live like them?" She thinks of Moira just now in her glamorous dress, perfectly coiffed wig, and five inch heels. "Lose everything you had and just live out of a motel?”

Mulder thinks for a second. “I think I would like that, actually. Might be nice. They don’t seem to mind it." Then after a while, he shrugs. "You know, that’s not that much different than what we’re already doing now, Scully.”

...

The sun is setting and turning all of Schitt's Creek a warm orange-pink. Inside the motel, the curtains are raised in Johnny and Moira’s room. Alexis is perched on the bed, her phone in one hand and a glass of zhampagne in the other. Johnny and Moira sit at the table while David and Patrick are curled up against each other on the sofa. David is eagerly counting down the minutes until their pizza arrives. 

Cindy is no longer on the floor, but on Moira’s head now, only backwards. The thick strands of hair like a dark veil covering her face. Maybe it’s accidental, an oversight due to the stress of the day’s events, or maybe it’s… 

“A _metaphor,_ family!” the shroud of hair shouts in perfect Moira Rose pitch. “Must I remind you I was almost in handcuffs not less than two hours ago?”

“Ew! Mom! Stop!” Alexis looks alarmingly at her mother and father. “We don’t need to hear _that_ kind of story again!”

“Moira, you willingly offered yourself to those agents,” Johnny reminds her. 

Off to the side, just a few steps away from all the shouting, Patrick angles himself further down into the sofa so David can rest against him more comfortably. 

“I think it might be fun to be in the FBI,” he mumbles into David’s hair. “Doing what those agents are doing.”

“Mm-hmm,” David hums and closes his eyes. “Fun? Or absolutely horrifying?"

“Come on, me and you, running around together solving crimes.” 

“Oh, _I’m_ a part of this new fantasy of yours now?” David can’t help his smile. 

“Oh yeah, I’m taking you with me wherever I go, David Rose,” Patrick means it in a funny way but it comes out way, way softer. 

He leans his head back, a faraway look on his face. “Agent Rose,” Patrick says reverently, his free hand waving in front of them like he’s reading off a marquee, and David wrinkles his nose. 

Then Patrick says, lower, “We’d be great partners.”

 _Partners,_ David thinks.

“... Chasing Bigfoot. The Loch Ness Monster. Motel serial killers. Uncovering dead bodies...”

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” David shakes his head. “There will be no chasing. No dead bodies.“

Their quiet laughter is interrupted by another shout from Moira. About what, they couldn’t care less. 

And then suddenly, as if on cue, something louder and far more grating to the ears: _DON'T CRY OUT LOUD, JUST KEEP IT INSIDE._

The music blares from next door. 

“Oh! Roland!” Johnny shouts at the wall. He stands up and straightens his jacket.

“He wanted to stay the night,” Johnny shouts above the music and walks towards the door. “He said he and Jocelyn were too frazzled by those agents being here and wanted another night to... decompress.” 

“Oh my god, no, Dad!” Alexis yells. “Why would you want to go over there _now?”_ She waves her hand vaguely in the direction of Roland and Jocelyn’s room and beckons her father away from the door. 

Moira stands and puts her wrists together in the air as the music somehow gets even louder. “Oh, John… John! Is it too late to call those agents back?!” 

Patrick looks over as Mrs. Rose attempts to walk toward Mr. Rose blindly, her hands in front of her face which is still covered behind a full head of hair.

There is a cacophonous battle in the room now between Moira and Melissa Manchester and Patrick revels in the magical way David's soft, muffled laughter against him somehow drowns it all out. He leans down and presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. 

"Is it like this all the time here?" Patrick asks him. He’s not sure what he means by “here.” Here, at the motel, where there was _almost_ a serial killer. Here, with this crazy, hysterical, all-consuming family. Here, with David in his arms. 

It’s been five days now since David kissed Patrick for the first time and two hours since those federal agents left their town. Despite the frenzy going on around them, David relaxes against the steady up and down of Patrick's chest behind him. 

Patrick moves their hands onto David's lap. He laces their fingers together. Their thumbs push gently, playfully, against each other like a secret game of thumb war, and then David thinks, ok, maybe he would go chasing Bigfoot with this man after all. Maybe he would jump in a car with him and follow him to whatever backwater town, chasing down every fantastic monster, every dangerous motel killer, running around together like Patrick had said, to the ends of the earth, and then wherever and whatever else after that. 

David squeezes Patrick's thumb and brings their hands to his lips as Alexis shouts something about the pizza being here.

"Only when the motel sells out." 


End file.
